The First Time We Visit
       

the neurologist, he gives us
exactly 7 minutes of his time.
"What's 8 plus 15?'

he asks my father who gives me
a look I know all too well:
What is this guy, an imbecile?

"8 plus 15 is 23." My dad speaks
loudly as if the doctor hears
worse than he does. "C'mon, ask

me a real question." My father puts
up his dukes and punches the air
eager for a good fight.

"8 times 15 is 120.
120 times 15 is 1,800.
1,800 times 15 is 27,000."

The poor neurologist
has no way of knowing what
a math whiz my dad is

how he'd entertain me on long car
rides by barking out math problems
or better yet dare me to challenge

him. "Dad, what's 11,327
plus 10,695?" I'd ask.
"22,022," he'd say in a second

waiting for me to work it out
in my notebook. He was always
right. "Dad, what's a million

plus a trillion?" I'd ask, searching
my brain for the biggest number
in the universe. "A million trillion,"

he'd answer. "Dad, what's
a million trillion plus
a million trillion?"

"A ba-a-a-zill-ll-ll-ion,"
he's say, shaking his head so fast
his cheeks turned to rubber

and I'd crack up. If only
we were laughing now
but the neurologist is not

amused. He leans forward
to study his puzzle of a patient.
"Where were you born?"

"Brooklyn, naturally,"
my father says as if the doctor
should know that anyone who is

anyone was born in Brooklyn.
"What did you do for a living?"
My father sits up a little taller

"I'm an attorney. Still practicing."
The neurologist looks to me
to confirm that either this is true

or that my father is bonkers.
"Yep," I say, hoping to convey
that this is a real problem.

The neurologist does not catch on.
"Who's running for president?" he asks
my father who is now convinced

that the doctor is completely bananas.
"Hilary and the son of a bitch,"
he bellows, causing the two

receptionists out front to break
into peals of squealing laughter.
"He's fine." The doctor leans back

and glances up at the clock
to let me know I've wasted
enough of his time. "He's great.

Take him home." My father is already
out of his seat. "But what about
his delusions?" I ask, "the men

singing in his head, the little boy
at the foot of his bed?"
The neurologist shrugs.

"Old people have delusions,"
he says, pulling open his file
cabinet's top drawer

clearly done with me
and my dad, who is already
out in the waiting room

waving my coat by the shoulders
like a matador taunting a bull
then hustling me down the hallway

c'mon, let's go, shake a leg,
we have more important things
to do than deal with this nonsense

and this doctor who I know
my dad thinks is a real nut job
and will never again agree to see

not next week, not next month
not in a million trillion
bazillion years

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Copyright © 2022 Lesléa Newman All rights reserved
from I Wish My Father
Headmistress Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission